Love from Paris
by raeymaeker
Summary: Gold gets a text on accident with the picture of a blue-eyed woman and the words "With love from Paris." He never deletes it, looking at it frequently. And one day, the woman walks into his shop. [one-shot]


Mr. Gold was in the backroom fixing a clock when his cell phone vibrated, making an awful racket against the hard oak of the counter. He frowned. Few people had that number. Fewer still would dare to call it.

Setting aside his tools and brushing his hands against the apron over his suit, he flipped the phone open and pressed the middle round button to download the picture text.

It was a woman.

She had rich chocolate brown curls and a smile that lit up her face from chin to eyes, ear to ear, and everything in between. Her face was roundish, nose smallish, and—heavens help him!—those eyes! Even through the grain of the picture's poor quality, Gold was entranced. They were blue, common enough, but more stunning than any he'd ever seen before. Blue as arctic waters. Clear as sky. And bright as stars.

The woman was beautiful.

Gold couldn't look away. Surrounded by the priceless treasures of the shop, by items that could fetch thousands of dollars, he only had eyes for the woman in his hands.

When the phone's light went dark and the image disappeared, he cursed and fumbled with the buttons to bring her back. When she reappeared, this time he noticed the outline of the Eiffel Tower behind her radiant face and the small line of text written underneath:

_With love from Paris! xoxo_

He hardly breathed, too afraid he'd break the spell.

And then the phone vibrated again, in his hand, a little yellow envelope blinking. Gold jumped, and as he hastily opened the new message and waited for it to download, he felt something in his stomach he hadn't felt in decades: butterflies.

It was another picture but—Gold realized with disappointment once it blinked onto the screen—not of the woman and thus of far less interest to him. Not to say that it wasn't a nice picture. It was of a rock bridge covered by vibrant and exotic flowers so thick that it looked more like the blossoms were floating midair above sparkling water. Under the image was another message:

_Took a boat ride on the Seine this morning. Thought you'd appreciate this._

Chest hammering, Gold suddenly wanted these words, these pictures to be his. He yearned for those blue eyes, her freely given love, her xoxo's, and even her pictures of flowers. He ached so, so badly—so _desperately_—for it to be true. Not a mistake.

But of course it was a mistake. Who would ever send _him_ love from Paris?

Gold grimaced. It was time to end this—this—_whatever_ this was.

Ever so slowly (the keys were just so bloody small and obnoxious), he typed out a curt reply.

_Wrong number._

With some force, he snapped the phone closed, set it on the very edge of his desk, and returned to his clock, fighting to forget blue eyes. The Seine. Paris. _Love…_

Another vibration.

Gold dove for the phone.

_Oh, I'm so sorry!_ the text read. _All the same, stranger, love from Paris! :)_

All Gold could do was stare.

And it didn't stop there.

There were no more texts, no more mistakes, but Gold couldn't let the woman go. Weeks later—even _months_—when the pawnshop was empty, the sound deafening, and Gold's soul weary, he'd limp to the backroom, turning the phone over and over in his hands. He'd sit. He'd look at the closed phone. And, finally, he'd open it and pull up the picture, tracing her face with his eyes and losing himself in her light. He couldn't explain it, but looking at her made him feel…whole. Happy, in a way he hadn't been in years. Yet always mixed in would be the tinge of inestimable sorrow and longing. And when the longing became too great, he'd snap the phone closed again, shoving it away from him and promising to delete the picture that night.

He never did.

He never could.

Until the day he did.

It was a black day. There'd been a major setback in the custody hearing, and the dull possibility that he might never get his son back was fast becoming a reality. He felt empty. He felt rage. With a strangled cry, he swiped his arm across his desk, brushing everything to the floor with a crash. His lamp. A valuable diamond necklace. Papers. Pens.

And the phone.

Seized by a sudden hot burst of self-loathing, Gold snatched up the phone.

_No one could ever, ever love him!_

He opened her last text message, the one where she'd apologized and still offered her love like some sick joke.

_Not his father!_

He erased the message, punching the necessary buttons with violence.

_Not Milah!_

He pulled up the second message, the one with the bridge. He deleted it.

_Not Cora! Not anyone in Storybrooke!_

The woman's picture flashed on screen, eyes so blue, smile so real, so sincere. Gold felt a sneer curl at his lip.

_And certainly not some nameless woman in France!_

His finger hovered over the delete button.

_With love from Paris…_

He felt the rage drain from him in an abrupt, sudden rush.

…_xoxo…_

The phone slipped from his fingers. It clamored to the floor. His vision blurred. He could feel the hot, tickling trail of a tear down his cheek.

"Bae," he whispered to the empty pawnshop, the face of his precious boy rising in his mind. "Oh, Bae…"

Then he sunk to the floor. And wept.

xxx

_[one week later]_

Belle was enamored by the city her father had moved to.

Storybrooke.

Just thinking the name made her toes tingle with delight. How could someone _not_ immediately fall in love with a city possessing a name like that? It brought to mind faraway lands, impossible dreams, exciting dangers, and, yes, true love. She sighed in perfect contentment, swinging her legs where they dangled off the pier, closing her eyes, listening to the gulls and surf, and smelling the salty air.

When her toes started to get chilly, Belle pulled her shoes back on and decided to walk around the town a bit. There was an ice cream parlor (she put it at the top of her to-do list). A picturesque clock tower (she'd have to bring her camera with her next time). Granny's diner (her father had confessed to being addicted to the hamburgers there and Belle added that to her list as well). And a pawnshop.

Belle stopped, feeling a thrill pass through her at the name: _Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer_. Just standing outside and looking through the dim window, she could already smell dust and time and memories. She could already feel the draw of the antiquities, their quiet beckoning for her to touch them and add her own history upon their dappled pasts.

Unable to stop the grin on her face, Belle yanked the door open and walked inside.

"Oh," she whispered.

Yes, Belle _loved_ Storybrooke.

It was everything a pawn-slash-antique shop should be. There was little rhyme or reason to where items were displayed. Instead, each table and shelf held its own little jewels to be found, pirate treasures with no blood-stained "X" to mark the spot. Just special discovery after special discovery, a world of surprises and mysteries at every turn. Belle felt wrapped in the physical manifestation of time and the unknown.

"Can I help you?" a Scottish voice asked.

Belle turned to see an older gentleman walk out from behind a curtain concealing the back of the shop. He was wearing a clearly expensive three-piece suit the color of charcoal with a silk shirt a few shades lighter, a black silver tie, and a dark maroon handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He had hair down to his shoulders, a long slender nose, and eyes of the deepest brown she'd ever seen. Everything about him seemed flawless and carried the same aura of mystery as his shop. Belle instantly decided she liked this man. He had presence. She sucked in every detail about him so that she could write it down later that night, her mind already whirring and trying to shape a story to match that face, those hooded eyes, that golden-tipped cane.

_Ooh, the possibilities…_ her Muse murmured happily in the background.

"I love your shop!" Belle cheerily said, keeping the more creative side of her brain from completely taking over.

And the man—as soon as he saw her—froze in his tracks, mouth opening as though he'd seen a ghost.

He said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there, gaping.

Well. Not exactly what she'd been expecting…

"Are you Mr. Gold?" Belle asked, feeling ever the slightest uncertain—and, she had to admit to herself, _intrigued_—by the intensity of his stare.

His mouth snapped closed. "I—I'm sorry," he stuttered. "What was that?"

"Are you Mr. Gold?" Belle repeated, cautiously taking a step closer.

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

He offered nothing else.

"Okay," Belle slowly said, desperately trying to think of what to say next. Something caught the corner of her eye and she gasped.

Books. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands! Leather bound. Gold-lettered script. Some thin. Some large. All of them: books!

When her father had said that the city had boarded up the public library nearly two decades ago, Belle had been filled with unspeakable anger. What about the children? Who would teach them to imagine themselves in a world of characters' shoes? And who would remind the adults to be children once more?

It was the one black mark she'd given the town thus far.

But now there was a veritable cove of precious, antique works to be discovered and handled. She felt her fingers itch for the feeling of aged pages against her skin and letting the musty smell sink deep under her skin.

"This is quite a collection!" she exclaimed, surprised to see some rather priceless copies. She certainly hadn't expected _this_ in an out-of-the-way pawnshop in the little town of Storybrooke, and she felt her spirit soar.

"Yes," Mr. Gold said, seemingly snapping out of his daze. "I've spent a lifetime collecting them." He slowly approached her, his cane thumping on the ground. He gave her a sidewise glance. "They don't sell very well here."

Belle couldn't hear any melancholy in his voice at that confession, no discontent at profit lost. Instead, she thought she caught a streak of pleasure that the books remained where they were. When she saw him gently stroke the binding of a copy of William Blake's poems, she determined that these books were his friends and therefore this man must be hers.

"I'm Belle French," she said, thrusting out her hand. "My father is Moe, the florist."

The man eyed her hand for a moment before taking it. His handshake was firm but not too tight. Just. Perfect. She fought a grin.

"Belle," he whispered, tasting the word.

She felt a curious shiver in her spine.

"Well," she said, taking her hand back and nervously brushing a curl behind her ear, "I love books."

Okay, that was dumb.

"I was an English major back in college."

Less dumb.

"I just got back from a trip to Europe!"

Maybe a bit better?

A strange look crossed his face. "Paris, perhaps?" The words were low.

"That was my first stop," she said.

He nodded, licking his lips. "And…and did you like it there?"

A wave of pleasant memories came over her. Quaint cafes. Melodies sung on street corners. The smell of bread. Little book stores hidden in plain sight. She smiled. "I loved it. It was—" she paused to think of the right word "—magical."

The first ghost of a smile pulled over Mr. Gold's face. "That it was," he said, voice quiet. "That it was."

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT.]


End file.
